


di rider finirai pria dell'aurora

by ester_potter



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon? What Canon?, Coming Untouched, Feelings, Feels, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Prequel, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sort of? - Freeform, Unrequited Love, andrés is annoying af, but he's not a coward, no beta we die like men, not here, pining!Martín, sergio doesn't try to split them up for once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25511257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ester_potter/pseuds/ester_potter
Summary: Martin smiles bitterly. – Half is not synonymous with equal. I could be your half and still be at your mercy.–You think I'm not at your mercy? – Andrés intertwines their fingers and looks him straight in the eye. – You don't know it, but I'm completely yours. And I loathe, I hate, I can't bear the thought that you believed otherwise, all this time... and because of me.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Palermo | Martín Berrote & Professor | Sergio Marquina
Comments: 6
Kudos: 64





	di rider finirai pria dell'aurora

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel!fic set 5 years after Martín e Andrés’ first meeting: they live in Paris and Sergio joined them a year ago. He and Martín are 33, Andrés is 38.  
> The title’s from Mozart’s Don Giovanni and it means: “You shall cease laughing before dawn”

_“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,  
in secret, between the shadow and the soul”_  
  
  
– Pablo Neruda  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Martín tilts his head back slightly towards the wall against headboard. "There they are... like clockwork. I'd have left this room to Sergio, had I know this" he thinks with a snort.  
As he had predicted, Andrés' moans and Michelle's screams come from the room next door, making him sick to his stomach. He turns on the TV hoping to drown out their noises while Marcel gets dressed, standing next to the bed. He is not one of those guys who feel compelled to end up in pleasantries after sex; he was just looking for a little pleasure, as he himself had said to Martín when they had met a few hours before, and pleasure he had had.  
It's usually Martín who fills silences after a fuck – he always liked to talk, as long as it doesn't get personal – but he's not in the mood tonight and he can't wait to be alone and bury his head under the pillow.  
Clearly the television’s failing in its task, because Marcel turns to Martín and grins. – They're really getting it on, aren’t they? – He points to the next room with a nod of his head and Martín doesn't even bother to answer. His mutism, so different from the malicious eloquence that had struck him when they met, catches Marcel by surprise and he really can’t do anything but remain silent, at least until it's time to leave.  
–Are you all right? – he asks as soon as he's finished tying his shoes. – Was I that terrible?  
–What? No – Martín hurries to answer, stopping when he hears the headboard squeaking rhythmically from the other side of the wall. He tries to ignore it and smile. – It's not that you... I’m just a bit out of sorts.  
Marcel wrinkles his forheard, looks towards the wall of the adjacent room and then him again, all in a split second, but Martín doesn’t miss the movement of his eyes. He must have understood, but even if he did he keeps it to himself.  
–So... See you around then – he just says.  
–See you.  
Marcel closes the door behind him as he leaves and Martín starts zapping from channel to channel until he finds MTV where, to his delight, the biggest hits of the 80's are playing. He turns up the volume and puts his head on the pillow with a frustrated sigh.  
"I should have let Marcel stay a little longer” he thinks. “A second round would have saved the night.”  
He could go after him, and it wouldn't be just to spite Andrés: the truth is that he can only imagine what his best friend’s like in bed, but the sounds his girlfriend’s making are only feeding his wildest dreams, sending blood down his lower belly for the second time that night.  
–That’s enough – he murmurs to himself resolutely. – You said you'd stop. Stop thinking about it, stop it.  
He tries to focus on the words of Dead or Alive1 and start humming quietly. Now Andrés' bed’s headboard slams against the wall, and Michelle seems to have thrown all the decency she had left out of the window.  
–God, yes – she shouts. – Yes, just like that...  
Martín clenches his fists and massages his dick to get some relief, but he stops immediately.  
–You're so big – continues Michelle, emphasizing the last word. Martín wonders if she could be more explicit than that and she must have heard him, because she adds: – Yes, _there_... Ah... There... Harder, pound me!  
Before Martín's mind filter can be activated, he has already imagined Andrés' cock inside him as he mercilessly fucks him on the bed, on the desk, against the wall, on the floor; he has already thought about all the positions in which he would like to be fucked by him, from the front and from behind, from top and bottom, and he almost even hears himself screaming in Michelle's place.  
He swears quietly, closes his eyes and surrenders, letting his hand slip into his pants.  
  
  
  
  
  
–Tell me you have something elegant to wear.  
Martín stops at the door, caught off guard by the unusual impatience in Andrés's voice. – Elegant how? – he asks.  
Before him, Andrés is sitting next to his brother and looking at him with anticipation; Sergio eats his breakfast in silence while reading a book.  
–Leave it – Andrés cuts him off with a gesture of his hand, as if he has just come up with the solution. – Shall we go out when you’re free? We could buy you something.  
–Wait, I don't have much left... – Martín points out reluctantly. Andrés never forgave him for spending almost half of his share of the last heist’s earnings on a car, even if it's a late model Bentley, the best purchase Martín boasts of having made in his whole life.  
–We'll find something at a reasonable price – Andrés reassures him, finishing his tea.  
Martín leans against the jamb and looks at him suspiciously. – And may I ask why?  
–The Opera Garnier’s featuring Mozart’s Don Juan next Wednesday.  
–Oh. Ok. And what makes you think I want to go?  
–You do want to go, that's why I told you.  
–Do I now?  
–You don't?  
Andrés raises his eyes from the cup and looks at him as if he's challenging him, with a hint of his usual goddamn grin, and Martín doesn't even try to argue. He doesn't remember telling him that he really wants to see the Don Juan, but he does remembers telling him that he's never been to the Opera before; moreover, Andrés knows him and his taste – which very often converges with his own – so he really doesn’t have any way or reason to tell him no. Also, he doesn’t need to lie to himself: if Andrés wants him with him, Martín’s more than willing to go to the moon and back.  
Which doesn't stop him from worrying about his hard-earned money, so he tightens his lips and prepares for the worst. – You want to go to Armani, don't you?  
–I'd be happy to see you in one of those suit, yea. But it's only fair that you choose – replies Andrés without losing his sneer.  
Martín passes his hand over his face and sighs. – All right. But nothing over a thousand euros.  
Smile from ear to ear, Andrés gets up and passes by him as he walks away; he raises a hand on his cheek in the process and rubs his thumb on it in a sweet hint of caress. It’s a form of greeting that Andrés only uses with him, fast and platonic, and yet Martín can’t help but blushing every time.  
He realizes that Sergio’s been staring at him eloquently the whole time.  
–What are you looking at? – he asks him, sitting in front of him.  
–Nothing – Sergio, undaunted, continues pretending to read, while Martín fills his milk with cereal.  
–If you have something to say, just say it.  
Sergio fixes his glasses with a touch of his forefinger and shrugs his shoulders. – It's none of my business.  
“Exactly” Martín would like to say to him, choosing to stick with it instead. – Come on, spit it out.  
–I was just thinking about how ridiculous my brother is.  
–What do you mean?  
–He's the smartest, most insightful person I know in some ways, but he can be so fucking dense in others.  
Martín doesn't like the way this conversation is going, he doesn't like it at all, and yet he can't stop digging deeper. – What ways?  
Sergio closes the book and looks him straight in the eye.  
–The way that you have a crush on him.  
Martín struggles to laugh, ignoring the panic gripping his guts and the blood rushing to his cheeks. – Me?  
–A massive crush.  
–For him?  
–And I mean _huge_.  
–Oh please.  
–What am I saying? You’re head over heels in love…  
–All right, that’s enough – Martín hisses, suddenly turning to the door to make sure the subject of the conversation isn't listening.  
When he looks back at Sergio, the latter has the same sly smile Andrés has and Martín is dying to slap it off his face. He'd like to do it to both of them. – Isn’t it true?  
Martín nervously stirs his cereals and pounces on the cup devouring them in anger. – So what if it is? – he asks after a while.  
–That's fine by me. Really. I know what you're thinking, but I assure you I'm not jealous of your relationship. I knew right away that it was completely different, that you weren't just his best friend, or his "stepbrother".  
Martín smiles in dismay. – Was it that obvious?  
–Not at first. But I've been living here for a year now, with the both of you. I see you guys 24/7 and I see you _together_.  
Martín looks at him.  
–You should tell him.  
–No way.  
–He wouldn't get mad, you know.  
–Of course I know, but it doesn’t matter. Just forget it.  
Sergio sighs and heads to the sink to wash his cup and Andrés’. – As you wish. Like I said, it's none of my business.  
Martín raises his head and, as if he has read his mind, Sergio turns around to look at him over his shoulder. – And I won't say a word, don't worry.  
–Thank you – Martín whispers. Something else comes to his mind all of a sudden, so he lets a few seconds pass, clears his voice, and then asks with his most detatched voice: – Do you know if Michelle will be there too?  
–He didn't invite her, as far as I know.  
–Oh. And you're not coming either?  
–Opera's not my thing.  
  
  
  
  
  
Martín drives home with the brand new suit that Andrés pushed him to buy in the back seat. – They’ll perform in original language!? – he blurts out.  
–Of course they will – Andrés answers as if nothing happened. – What, did you expect them to sing in French? I would have refused to go there on principle.  
Martín doesn’t add anything else. Andrés looks at him. – Is that a problem?  
–No, not at all – he replies hastily.  
–Are you sure?  
During the first months the two had spent together planning a heist, Andrés used to have fun pointing out the differences between standard Spanish and South American so he could watch Martín get angry; the youngest knew very well that the only way to make him stop was to ignore him, but it wasn’t his nature. At the time he didn't know him yet – he didn't _want_ to know him – and had pegged him as a shitty racist, to the point that one day he didn’t hold back anymore and punched him in the face. It took him only a short time to get to know him and realize that Andrés was actually more open–minded than he was himself and that, although he loved his homeland, he loved everything outside of it even more, from east to west, from north to south. He lived for foreign arts and cultures, he had read and travelled a lot, and he only ever used that cheeky and smug mask to take Martín to the limit, and he fell for it every time. Just like now. – I know Italian… a little bit – he says.  
–You don't even know Spanish – And of course he said it. Andrés tightens his lips, trying not to burst out laughing ahead of time, while Martín sighs noisily and drums his fingers on the dashboard.  
–I'm going to kick you out of this car, so help me – he warns him, trying to keep a serious tone.  
Andrés laughs as always, open–mouthed and head thrown back, and Martín thanks Heaven for being behind the wheel, otherwise it would be hard not to be enchanted by that show. – Relax, – continues Andrés once he's serious again, – there will be subtitles.  
This seems to calm Martín. – And here I thought you wanted to go to Bercy.  
–What's in Bercy?  
–Ennio Morricone’s2 giving a concert, next week.  
–I’ll go with you, if you want.  
–Won't you get bored?  
–With you it's impossible – replies Andrés, unaware of his best friend’s fleeting smile. – Especially if we go to a concert.  
–Epecially if said concert is held by that genius. By the way, didn't you tell me you'd already seen Don Juan once?  
–I did. I went with my high school class, but I don't remember much. I only remember loving it to the point that once I was out of the theatre I promised myself I'd see it again.  
–What is it about?  
–A knight that spends his life seducing women and then throwing them away, always with the intention of having fun and never committing.  
Martín giggles. – Ah, now I see why you like it so much – He smiles slyly. – It’s about you.  
–I knew you'd say such bullshit – snorts Andrés, pretending to be offended. – Come on, speed up. I'm starving.  
Like every rare time Andrés allows him to fully exploit his new car, Martín presses on the accelerator and opens the window halfway.  
–You think twice, the next time you feel like complaining about my treasure – Martín tells him.  
–Your treasure?  
–The car.  
Andrés shakes his head laughing.  
–Does he get what he deserves in the end?  
–Who?  
–Don Juan. Does he get punished or finds true love and finally settles down?  
–You'll find out on Wednesday.  
  
  
  
  
  
–You were right, it was fun –Martín takes the car keys out of his pocket as he walks with Andrés to the parking lot. – And I understood almost everything. Thanks for inviting me.  
–Don’t mention it. I knew you'd like it – Andrés puts his arm on his shoulders and instinctively Martín puts his around his waist, as they always do when they’re tipsy. It feels different when they’re sober, but Martín doesn't mind it. – Do you still think I'm like Don Juan?  
Martin pretends to think about it. – No, not really.  
–I'm glad.  
–At least your _initial_ intentions are good, though they always end up down the toilet.  
–Right. And if I'm Juan, who are you?  
Martín thinks it through. Once they get to the car they stop and look at each other. – Leporello – they say in unison. The two burst out laughing as they picture themselves wearing in tights on a stage.  
–Come on, Leporello – Andrés positions himself in front of the passenger door with his arms crossed and challenges him with his eyes. – Open the door for me.  
–Screw you.  
–Wrong answer. You must say, “Yes, master”.  
–Not even in your dreams.  
Andrés gives in with a laugh.  
  
  
  
  
  
–Listen up – announces Andrés one afternoon, as they’re drawing up a plan to steal diamonds from the Champs–Élysées. – Colette’s coming here for dinner tomorrow.  
–Colette who? – asks Martín.  
–His new prey – replies Sergio coldly.  
–Stop saying that, – his brother scolds him, – you make it sound so unromantic.  
No one says anything for a while, until Martín asks: – I take it we won't see Michelle anymore?  
Sergio looks at him furtively, while Andrés turns directly to him and smiles.  
-She wasn't the right person – he answers. – Actually, Sergio already met her yesterday, she came by for coffee but you weren't there. I'd like you to meet her... You know I'm not comfortable if I don’t have your consent. If it's not a problem, of course.  
“Yes, it _is_ a fucking problem. Of course it is. Why can’t you ever settle for anything? You have your brother here, and you have me. You don't need no Colette, no Michelle, you don't need anybody, I'm here.”  
As usual, the thought that forms in his mind stays there, without being able to make its way out, and deep down Martín knows it’s for the best. Andrés is not like him, and there's nothing he can do to change him. Not only because he's straight, but because he's crazy about women, always has been… he adores them. It's in nature.  
For a moment he thinks about the Don Juan’s second act. The first scene, to be precise.  
_"Let's talk no more about it! Have you enough nerve to do what I tell you?"_  
_"As long as we leave women!"_  
_"Leave women? Ha, ha, ha! Madman! You know that they are necessary to me, more than the bread I eat, more than the air I breathe..."_  
He smiles sadly when he thinks about it, but only for a moment. – I'd love to. I'd be happy to meet her.  
  
  
  
  
  
When Martín comes back, he finds Sergio lying on the sofa watching TV. – Hey.  
–Hi.  
–Andrés?  
–He went out with... What's her name again? Cosette?  
–Colette – Martín snorts, dropping on the couch next to him.  
He feels his eyes on him, but whatever Sergio’s thinking he keeps it to himself, and Martín is sincerely grateful. An hour goes by, it's almost dinnertime and Martín's stomach remains tightly clamped in a vice. He doesn’t really feel like eating, so he gets up. “I need to drink and dance until I fall on the floor... and maybe find someone to fuck”  
–You’re going out?  
–Yep. Wanna come? – he asks Sergio, though he already knows the answer. – I won't make you dance, I promise.  
Sergio's eyes turn disappointed and Martín can't take it anymore, so when the other one answers him a faint “No, thanks”, he grabs his jacket and leaves without looking back.  
He has just arrived at the car when Sergio storms out and runs towards him. – Martín, wait.  
–What is it?  
–Listen, – he says, – you can't go on like this and you know it too – Martín almost winces and prepares to turn his back on him but Sergio stops him. – No, listen to me! You know it'll come out sooner or later. Just face it, and tell him. What's the worst that can happen?  
“You don’t get it, Sergio. It’ll be a disaster… And I don't want to go back to being alone...” He knows perfectly well that that’s not the real problem, because he likes being alone; he has always been alone, ever since he was a child, he has always been just fine and he’s sure he hasn't forgotten how to get by on his own. It's the thought of being without _Andrés_ that tortures him. “I don't want to go back to being without him, now that I've met him”  
–I don't want to ruin our friendship – he just says, avoiding the other's gaze as if he was ashamed of the greatness of his own feelings, as if they made him weak. – And I don't want him to distance himself.  
Sergio looks in my in the eye and then, to Martín's surprise, he smiles at him for the first time like a friend. – You're kidding, right? – he says. – Andrés distancing himself from _you_? Please. He couldn't even if he wanted to.  
Martín's dying to ask him how he knows, whether Andrés said it to him, and if he knows something he doesn't, but he doesn't dare open his mouth.  
–There’s no distancing the two of you – adds Sergio as he takes his car keys from him.  
Martín thinks about it and sighs. – Fuck it, you're right. Come on, give me the keys back, I'm staying.  
Sergio blinks several times.  
–What's wrong? – Martín asks.  
–You agreed with me. It's the first time.  
–Surprised?  
–Indeed.  
–Not as much as I am, believe me.  
  
  
  
  
  
When Martín hears Andrés opening the door, he gets up from the couch and turns towards him.  
–Hey! – says Andrés.  
–Hey.  
–You're still awake.  
–I was waiting for you... Where’s Colette?  
–Actually, I... – Andrés suddenly stops and stares at him. Then he sighs and finally admits: – I wasn’t with her.  
–Sergio said...  
–I lied to him. I wanted to be alone… Needed to clear my head.  
–Oh. – Martín holds a sigh of relief. – Okay.  
Neither of them does anything for a while and they start talking at the same time.  
–Do you have a minute?  
–I need to talk to you.  
They smile and sit on the couch, Martín leans with his back to one armrest and Andrés to the other.  
–Listen... – Martín begins.  
–I know what you want to tell me.  
Martín looks at him skeptically. – Trust me, you don't.  
–Yes, I do – Andrés insists. – I had a chat with my brother earlier today, while you were out.  
Martín’s blood freezes in his veins at those words.  
“Sergio, you damn son of a bitch”  
–Oh.  
Andrés smiles. – It's okay.  
–I'm sorry... I was going to tell you...  
–Martín, I mean it –Andrés insists. – You have nothing to apologize for. In fact, I should apologize.  
–For what?  
–I don't want you to think I enjoyed playing with your feelings... because I didn't. That's the last thing I wanted to do.  
Andrés looks down at his shoes, tightens his lips and turns to him, more insecure than Martín has ever seen him. – I thought I was just imagining things – he cracks a grin. – And don't get me wrong, I really like women, I like them a lot, but... it’s different with you.  
–Different how? – asks Martín, his throat dry.  
Andrés takes a breath.  
–With them I feel infatuation, excitement even, but it's not something... that I feel in my stomach, if you know what I mean. Not the way I feel with you. I don't feel that connection with them that I feel with you. It doesn’t ruin my day if I argue with them, but it does if I argue with you – He stops, holds back for a second and then he adds. – I can live without them.  
There's no need for him to finish the sentence, all Martín has to do is read between the lines and take time to process everything. “He can't live without me he said he can't live without me _Andrés_ said he can't live without me”  
Andrés giggles. – Did you shut down, engineer?  
They're both desperately looking for something to break the awkwardness, uncertain on what to do next, like a couple of teenagers.  
–I would never have believed it – Martín murmurs with a hint of sarcasm.  
At his words Andrés's gaze lights up, a smile spreads all over his face, and Martín shakes his head. – No – he warns him.  
Too late.  
–I would never have believed it... – Andrés starts singing as he gets closer to him on the couch. – But I'll do what I can!  
–Don't you dare! – Martín sticks the sole of his shoe before his face. Andrés grabs his foot and pulls it away before throwing himself at him.  
–Leporello, another supper! – he sings louder.  
–Stop it! – Martín wiggles beneath him and laughs with tears in his eyes.  
–Have it brought immediately!  
–Shut up! Sergio’s asleep – Martín raises a hand to shush him.  
–Since when do you worry about my little brother's sleep?  
–You’re right, I don't give a damn, but I care about my ears and you sound like a crow – It’s not even remotely close to the truth and they both know it, but right now Martín just wants to spite him.  
–... This hurts me tremendously.  
Andrés takes the younger man’s wrists and holds them down on either side of his head.  
–Go on, say your line.  
–Forget it.  
–Say: “Ah, master, we're all dead”.  
–No.  
–Call me master.  
–Fuck you.  
Martín tries to free himself and _that_ is the moment he realizes the situation they’re in: Andrés is kneeling between his legs, bent forward to hold his wrists, their groins dangerously close to each other; he freezes and looks at him bewildered while Andrés loosens the grip on his wrists without actually leaving them. They keep looking into each other's eyes for an indefinite time, neither of them dares to move until Andrés starts drawing circles with his thumbs on his wrists, and it’s so simple and pure, but it’s also the first time Andrés is touching Martín in a non-friendly way, and Martín's blood rushes to his lower abdomen.  
Andrés – the _asshole_ – must realize it, because his gaze turns languid as he rubs down against him in a slow circular motion; Martín immediately responds by clenching his fists and letting out a moan. Andrés takes it as an invitation to go on starts grinding against his growing erection. Martín releases short, wheezy breaths, his cock pressing insistently against his pants, and from his position he can clearly see the bulge in Andrés' pants engorging.  
He matches the other’s ministrations so that their erections meet through their clothes and the friction is perfect. “I could come like this,” Martín thinks. “Maybe I will.”  
Just like he has read his mind, Andrés increases the pressure and pants straight into his ear, licking his shell from time to time. Encouraged, Martín finally lets his hands free to wander through the older man’s hair and down to his neck, he caresses his back and struggles to kill the instinct to strip him of all his clothes, because there’s no way to stop Andrés nor himself now. Also, the fact that Andrés is still fully clothed – flawless as ever – makes it all the hotter.  
Andrés must feel it too, because he quickly pulls off his jacket and then lifts one of Martín's legs with one hand under his thigh, bringing it down lower until it surrounds his butt and rubs them together _hard_ , as if he were really fucking him. Martín can’t remember the last time he did something like this. It’s a twisted thought, but Martín suddenly recalls Michelle's screamed of appreciation, from just a few weeks earlier. “You're so big” she had said. Martín had never had any doubts about it, given the number of women he had heard screaming this statement while Andrés was fucking them, and from what he feels through his jeans, it’s nothing but true: he imagines what it would be like if there weren't layers between them, how his dick inside him would feel, deeper than anything else, and he really thinks he's about to explode. – Andrés...  
–Don't hold back, _querido_.  
Martín ignores the butterflies that invade his stomach when he hears Andrés calling him that, and he thinks he would gladly stop holding back, if it weren't for the fact that his brother’s sleeping a few doors away.  
–But Sergio...  
–Sergio's not five. We won’t traumatize him.  
That’s all Martín needs to start meeting Andrés’ thrust more urgently and chasing his own pleasure. He's close, and though he resents the idea of creaming his pants like a teenager after some frottage with his crush, he decides to throw his dignity out the window and does exactly what Andrés tells him next: – Let go.  
He pictures Andrés naked and buried inside him last, Michelle's voice in the background: “There... Harder, _pound me_.”  
Martín opens his mouth in a silent 'o', while Andrés keeps on hammering against him like he hasn’t just pushed him to the limit, bites on his fist to suppress the moans as much as he can, and finally collapses on the couch. Andrés lies on top of him and doesn't move; Martín still feels his erection pressing down on his lower abdomen and he _can't wait_ to get his hands on him.  
When Andrés pulls himself up to look at him, Martín’s panting like he’d just run a marathon, flushed cheeks and sweaty hair falling on his forehead, and Andrés thinks he’s more beautiful than ever.  
So he tells him, because he's waited long enough. – You're beautiful – He caresses his cheek, this time for good, not like he usually does when he walks by next to him. – I always thought you were.  
That's enough of an injection of courage for Martín: he sits up, puts his hand on the back of Andrés's neck and brings him straight against his lips, for the first time after five years of dreaming about it. Only it is a thousand times better than his dreams: it’s wet, hot and ravenous, like everything about Andrés, which instinctively opens his mouth to welcome his tongue and strokes it sensually with his own. When Martín moves back to breathe he instantly miss Andrés’ lips on his, but his hard-on keeps pressing against his belly and it’s become impossible to ignore.  
He lowers his fingers and stops at them of the other’s pants. – May I?  
Andrés nods, short breath and skin quivering in anticipation. Martín pulls out his erect and thick member, smiling complacently when he realizes that it was his body, manly and lacking in breasts and curves, that had that effect on him. He's dying to take it in his mouth, but he still doesn't know Andrés' limits, so he looks him straight in the eye as he licks the palm of his hand from bottom to top, then wraps it around his cock and starts moving it up and down. Andrés closes his eyes with a liberating moan and when he pulls his head back Martín feels literally obliged to bite that marble neck that has haunted his loneliest nights and inspired his dirtiest thoughts. He bites it gently and then soothes him with his tongue, closes his lips and sucks; he has often seen him wearing the marks someone else had left on him, and now it's his turn. Meanwhile the other hand has reached down to his balls, massaging and playing with them, while Andrés's groans get louder by the second and he squeezes Martín’s hair on the back of his neck, forcing him to look him in the eyes. – Faster... – he whispers. – Please.  
Martín raises a corner of his mouth, without even bothering to pretend not to be pleased with that word. He increases the rhythm of his hand, teasing his glans insistently with the tip of his thumb. Andrés wrinkles his forehead in an expression of pleasure mixed with torture, resists for a while and finally yields, fucking Martìn's wrist, back and forth, fast and desperate; when he comes he floods the other’s fingers with white and presses their foreheads together as he release a long groan.  
After he feels like normally breathing again, Martín pulls back to smile softly at him. Andrés smiles back and gently bites the tip of his nose.  
–Why didn't we do it before?  
Martin raises an eyebrow. – Do you really want me to answer?  
–No, don’t – Andrés takes his chin between his fingers and kisses him long, slower than before.  
Martín basks in him for a while, then he pulls slightly away, picks up his courage and asks him: – Where does this leave us?  
He realizes that what they did doesn't really imply anything – he hasn't forgotten that Andrés has never been with a man before, while he’s always made it quite clear that he’s crazy about women – but he doesn't know how to feel about the prospect of everything going back to the way it was before. He hopes it will, because he can't stand the idea of losing him or even detaching from him, but at the same time, the idea depresses him enormously: to try and have a relationship with someone and then realizing that he doesn't feel anything like what he feels for Andrés, to play dumb when he meets another girl, to distract himself by fucking a stranger or jerking off over the moans coming from his best friend’s room. He had put up with everything in the last few years because he had utterly and hopelessly fallen in love with him, and he would put up with more, even a marriage and everything that comes with it, just to be near him. But now that he’s had a taste of heaven, he can’t imagine being locked out again.  
Andrés reads his gaze as always, brings his fingers down from his chin to his throat to caress it as soft as he can, and looks at him seriously: – You’re not like Leporello – he says.  
Martín is overwhelmed by the impulse to smother him with a pillow. “Does this seem like the right fucking time to talk about Don Juan?” he wants to say.  
Andrés notices his expression and hurries to clarify. – You're not a servant, Martín... You're my best friend – He rubs the tip of his nose against his. – My soul mate... my other half.  
Martin smiles bitterly. – Half is not synonymous with equal. I could be your half and still be at your mercy.  
–You think I'm not at your mercy? – Andrés intertwines their fingers and chains their eyes to his. – You don't know it, but I'm completely yours. And I loathe, I hate, _I can't bear_ the thought that you believed otherwise, all this time... and because of me.  
Martín caresses the curls on the back of his head and smiles. – I didn't need to know you were mine to love you.  
–I know, but this is something else entirely – Andrés kisses him on the neck and Martín wonders if he'll ever get used to it. – I love you.  
–I love you –Martin whispers.  
They spend more minutes kissing in silence, but five years of pining and pent-up desire are too many and the situation quickly degenerates: – If we want to proceed we should move to my room – Andrés pants while Martín’s busy leaving another hickey on his neck.  
Martín gives no sign of hearing him, and slightly shifts the collar of his shirt lower to make more room; Andrés doesn’t stop him and starts unbuttoning his shirt as he sits up straight. He giggles when Martín sit on him and prepares to give him the same service.  
–Here you are... Jesus Christ! – Sergio stops at the door and looks the other way.  
–What the hell – Martín jumps off Andrés' lap, which hurries to cross his legs to hide his erection. – Knocking’s not a custom anymore?  
–The door was open, you idiot – retorts Sergio.  
–Enough, both of you – Andrés warns them, nipping their quarrel in the bud. – Don't worry, _hermanito_ , we were just going to bed.  
The next morning, Sergio peeks into the kitchen with caution and sighs from relief when he finds Andrés and Martín laughing and eating at an appropriate distance. – Morning.  
–Morning – they greet him together.  
They talk throughout breakfast, and Sergio can’t help but observe them when they think he’s not watching.  
“The way they look at each other, they might as well fuck here on this table,” he thinks.  
–How was it? – he asks his brother when Martín gets up from the table.  
–Heavenly – replies Andrés with a sly smile.  
–You think you can keep your dick in your pants when I'm around, or should I start walking around the house without my glasses? You know, just in case.  
–The latter. Definitely.  
Sergio whines with exasperation.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 The song is You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)  
> 2 Just a little tribute, I know it’s been weeks (I still can’t believe it) but I care about it a lot. Ciao, maestro
> 
> Last week I went to see the Don Giovanni and the next day I had this thing on my mind. Should I worry if I’m starting to associate Palermo and Berlin to literally everything?  
> Anyway I finished my exams, which means I’m also out of excuses to postpone my long Berlermo AU but will I ever get over the fucking draft? I don’t think so. In fact, watch me churn out a ridiculous amount of random one-shots like this one :)


End file.
